


what a beautiful mess

by openmouthwideeye



Series: West Eros High [22]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:12:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Co·til·lion <i>noun</i><br/>1. A formal ball given especially for debutantes<br/>2. Seven levels of hell</p>
            </blockquote>





	what a beautiful mess

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for your patience. Life has been crazy, & I've been more uptight than usual about this fic because I don't want it to fall on its face in the eleventh hour. So. Thank you to everyone still reading and commenting. I hope this story has brought you a tenth of the enjoyment it's brought me.
> 
> The penultimate chapter is dedicated to Isy, because awesome beta is awesome. Also to tamjlee, Desi, RoseHeart, Spidey Sense, SigilBroken, & oddmagic for always leaving such thorough, insightful, animated comments. I swear I get giddy the second I see your names in my comment box, and I savor your feedback like I savor J/B fics. Y'all are the best!

Brienne felt silly seeing Jaime off for a weekend trip, but she couldn’t face the country club just yet. Once she disappeared behind those ivory walls, cotillion would be inescapable: the fancy dress, the glaring spotlight, and the conspicuously absent boyfriend.

Jaime had flitted in and out of a dour mood for days now. He’d skipped his latest physio appointment and ducked out of the doctor’s the second his mom had turned her back. He hadn’t even come to her game that week, and Brienne was pretty sure “mom’s got me doing interview prep” was only half the story.

She didn’t have to watch his glare find his stepfather to puzzle out the details.

“It’s just an interview,” she told him, catching his sleeve while the other two Lannisters bypassed the airport entrance like it wasn’t even there. Her shrug wasn’t quite offhand, but she hoped he understood what she was trying to do.

His unimpressed stare told her that he did, and he wasn’t buying. He scooped up her platitude and tossed it back at her. “It’s just cotillion.”

The yo-yo of her nerves was expected; she tangled the well-worn string in tense muscles. Her brows furrowed as she frowned, eyes dipping down his shoulder and back up as she gathered her thoughts. The fact that he’d even mentioned it worried Brienne more than anything. She shifted on her sneakers, uncomfortably aware of Tywin and Cersei Lannister scrutinizing them from the private access ramp. Her lungs played catch and release as she systematically regained control of her wavering fears.

Brienne tangled her fingers in Jaime’s right hand, accustomed to the bridge of plaster that prevented her from lacing them together. She wished she could think of some supportive affirmation, the words that would turn his Pinocchio confidence into laughing eyes and an easy smile. _No strings_. But her mind was half-knotted in ball gowns and spotlights, and her tongue only steered her right when she wasn’t talking.

“It’s all up to you,” she finally said. Her brain blared a warning, casting red light on her attempt. She tried to curtain her eyes, to hide her internal cringing.

A smile touched Jaime’s face. His shoulders set, and she was suddenly level with his eyes instead of his forehead. His fingers wove into hers.

She smiled back at him, less broadly but just as genuine. “Let me know how it goes.”

“You, too.” He reached up and teased the simple drop sapphire from the dip in her collarbone. The fabric of her t-shirt should have lessened his effect, but his fingers burned against her skin as if the fabric had melted at his touch. Brienne bit her lip, flustered in an entirely different way than she had been the night before. The weight of the gift eased as he rolled the gemstone between his fingers.

“If you don’t stop fawning all over your hockey bitch, _we’_ re going to miss our flight.”

Cersei’s voice sliced between them. Brienne’s focus teetered when she realized how close it was.

She winced. Cersei’s claws were scrabbling for purchase, and both girls knew that Jaime was restless enough without scratching the surface of sports.

“We own the plane.” He didn’t look at his stepsister, taken with nestling the sapphire into his palm.

“But Brienne is coming out tonight.” Feigned innocence eased into pleasure. “And I’m sure she’ll have guys just _slavering_ to mark her.”

The curve of Jaime’s knuckle went taut, brushing the hollow of Brienne’s throat. The chain scored the skin of her neck. She laid a firm hand on his elbow, breaching his resentment. Gold seeped into his irises as his fingers jerked and slacked and gentled. His thumb traced her collarbone, the necklace light again in his hand.

His stepsister crossed her arms, and the sound of her sole striking the sidewalk echoed in the stale rafters.

“It’ll be fine,” Brienne murmured, so Cersei wouldn’t hear. “Kyle’s banned. And I’ve got friends.”

Jaime eyed her flatly, echoing her doubts.

The golden girl sidled closer, stalling outside of their invisible intimacy. “We have interviews,” she reminded huffily. Neither turned to look at her. Her emerald eyes chipped, spraying flecks of scorn, and she turned sharply on her heel and stormed back to her father without offering a parting shot.

Brienne watched the cheerleader retreat over Jaime’s shoulder, feeling like sand grinding beneath her mortar and pestle will. She tried to remind herself that Jaime _lived_ with Cersei; his stepsister wouldn’t have any opportunities she didn’t have on a daily basis.

Brienne chewed her lip and turned back to her boyfriend, shoving Cersei from her thoughts. “Tell your mom thanks for the necklace.” She’d been so tongue-tied the night before that she hadn’t been able to scrounge up her courtesy. “It’s pretty.”

He nodded solemnly, eyes cavorting as she hesitated on _pretty_ like she’d never spoken the word before. She appreciated him not mentioning that she’d probably see his mom before he did.

“I told you.” Jaime tried to keep a straight face, but his lips cracked the mask as they always did. “You’re sexy in blue.” His affinity swept around her, flirtation laced with laugher and the hint of a snicker.

Red flared up the bridge of her nose, undermining her glower.

“See you Sunday.”

He hadn’t quite curbed his amusement when he leaned in to kiss her, so Brienne lifted her chin to dodge. Undeterred, he pressed his lips to the side of her throat, chuckling vibrations beneath her skin as an embarrassing noise escaped her. Her fingers dug into his ribs, and Jaime’s grunt was only partially playful when his hold faltered.

She ducked her chin past his cheek, murmuring his name against combed blond hair as she pulled him in. He pressed into the hug, easy affability scattering as he breathed into the tangled mess of her ponytail, away from the unwavering gaze of his father and sister. She held him tighter while he put himself back together, his frustrations outlined in each tense muscle. After a moment he pulled free.

Her heart dropped as he smiled ruefully, eyes reserved. Brienne leaned over to kiss him, soft and solid, preoccupying their mouths with all the things they wouldn’t say. She didn’t linger as she pulled away.

“Do me a favor and dominate, alright?” Jaime raised a brow, conveying challenge and rapport and expectation. 

She nodded, her reciprocation unspoken. He slid his duffle bag onto one shoulder, languishing his gaze from her toes to her nose before winking and jogging off to join his family. Brienne bit her lip, drawing strength from the tingle that zipped beneath her teeth whenever they kissed. She watched Jaime find his mark like a performer, staring ahead as his stepfather dressed him down for the delay. Guilt tickled her veins as she watched her boyfriend push through the private entrance, mimicking Mr. Lannister’s unaffected air. The heavy door closed behind them, sealing her fate and his.

 

* * *

 

The parking lot was scattered with cars when Brienne pulled around the back, slipping through the pool entrance in hopes of avoiding the other debs. Her t-shirt clung in the heat like a second skin, but she felt colder with every footfall echoing across the pool house.

Mrs. Stark found her wandering the halls and redirected her to an empty locker room before she could stumble onto a less lenient coach. Brienne scrubbed off the sweat in a shower that dwarfed her, toweling off perfunctorily and donning her shorts with the oxford shirt that Sansa had made her borrow from her dad.

Sansa’s mom fought a smile when she caught sight of the blue gemstone peeking between the buttons. Brienne reached up on instinct, tucking the pendant beneath the pale green cotton and clutching it through the fabric.

“All quiet on the Cersei front?” the cotillion director asked, guiding Brienne to a chair and rifling through a bag of beauty products.

“She’s visiting Kingswood,” Brienne muttered, releasing the necklace while Mrs. Stark took a brush to her ratted hair. The chain wasn’t delicate, but Brienne still worried that she might snap the expensive links. “With Jaime.”

Brienne watched the woman sober in the mirror.

“You have friends to support you, Brienne.” Her mentor’s voice was smooth, it’s undercurrent unassailable. “Margaery will help you through the pageantry. Sansa is running errands, if you’ve forgotten anything.” Her cheek turned wry. “I’ve even browbeaten Arya into attending, though if she hasn’t vanished by the first dance, something is severely wrong.”

Brienne smiled faintly, trying not to covet Arya’s easy escape. “My dad’s going to come,” she admitted, fiddling with a button as Mrs. Stark tugged softly at her hair.

“See?” The woman met her eyes in the mirror, pressing affectionate hands to the top of her head. “Nearly everyone you love.” Mrs. Stark soothed a spot on her scalp before resuming her careful detangling. “And none of the ones you don’t.”

A lump nestled in Brienne’s throat. She yanked a string from her dad’s shirt, twining it around her finger until it bit flesh, lessening the ache in her chest.

Avoiding Cersei wasn’t worth losing Jaime, but Brienne was too grateful to vocalize the thought. “Thanks for helping me,” she said instead. “I know most of the girls are doing their own– ”

She shrugged, gesturing to the brush, the clothes sticking damply from her shower, the equipment arrayed carefully on the counter.

“Well, I did encourage you to do this.” Brienne wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but Mrs. Stark raised a brow, her eyes lined with pride. “No achievement is as sweet as proving the naysayers wrong.”

Brienne shifted in her seat, trying not to think about how precarious that made her feel. A buzz rattled the supplies on the counter; she snatched up the lifeline as if she’d been monitoring it.

_Damn. What a boring flight._

Something knocked loose inside her, pushing a smile onto her face. She tried not to think about small planes and stepsisters as she wondered how antsy Jaime was about his interview. Was he preoccupied with Tywin and Cersei and Kingswood, or had cotillion distracted him?

How selfish would it be to bring it up?

Mrs. Stark watched her pause over the keyboard, mulling over her response. “Safe flight?” she murmured, gathering pale, shoulder-length hair in a high, loose knot.

The phone buzzed in Brienne’s hand, scattering her nerves.

_No way is this worth missing you all gussied up._

“Yeah,” she murmured, ducking away from a particularly sharp hairpin as she typed, _Is your dad making you wear a suit?_

_Yes._

She could picture his distaste, eye roll and all. Brienne hummed deep in her throat, clutching her cell phone to her palm. Her hair rose and fell around her, caressing and pricking and sweeping away again. When she coaxed her grip free, she found she had nothing better to say than, _Good luck._

She waited while Mrs. Stark leaned around her, sifting through compartments until there were three clusters of powders and tubes and brushes. Her phone remained silent. It was still silent after the woman had spritzed her hair, first with some heavy fragrance and then with something misty and light. Finally Brienne tossed her cell behind the pile of dirty clothes on the couch, trying to put it from her mind.

 _He’s busy_ , she told herself, pressing faint crescents into the skin of her hand. But believing it didn’t unclench the bundle of nerves gathering in the dip of her ribs.

Catelyn Stark dabbed the inside of her wrist, colors catching in creases as she examined them beside fair skin and freckles. She shook her head, uncapping more tubes. “It’s alright to be sad about it, Brienne,” she said, brushing back frizzy, framing locks with practiced fingers. “You’re allowed to be frustrated.”

“It’s not his fault.”

“No,” she agreed, tilting Brienne’s chin with a firm hand. “And it’s not yours. Taking life as it is doesn’t mean pretending it’s not difficult.”

Brienne let her eyes flutter closed as Mrs. Stark dusted a brush over her nose. The bristles felt nice against her skin, but Brienne ground her teeth, remembering the unmitigated disaster that was Sansa’s attempt at making her over.

Sansa’s mother dabbed her face with this gunk and that. Brienne turned when commanded, puckered when prodded, and tried not to blink when the woman stabbed at her eye with a brown, bristled wand. She tried to pretend this was some twisted form of game prep. Passing drills, suicides, and even ballroom lessons with Jaime seemed far more manageable than all this makeup.

Her heart dipped when she remembered that first waltz, spinning around the ice until she felt breathless. Jaime had danced from mischief to frustration and back again before she could pin herself down. It was strange to realize that she hadn’t imagined the regard in those crisp, attentive eyes.

The memory of Renly undermined the whole afternoon, a crack spinning webs through the ice. In her head she cradled a pail of warm water, tracing each line and watching it disappear under her warm, wet fingers. She felt Jaime at her back, flashing from indulgent to irate and back again, while Brienne wondered if she could ever forgive her oldest friend.

She was so caught up her thoughts that she didn’t notice the brush making its final sweep. Mrs. Stark pressed her hands into Brienne’s shoulders, leaning close while the girl’s eyes popped open to catch her own reflection.

Brienne stared at the deb in the mirror. She was nothing special. Plain. Crooked. Boyish. Her eyes were sort of shimmery, freckles apparent beneath the pale powder, and her lips had more chapstick than color. With the simple hairstyle and single piece of jewelry, Brienne would be the most underdressed debutante in the ballroom.

She exhaled back into her seat. Her heart fluttered like those early, unsure hockey days; lacing up her skates and gliding onto the ice, never knowing what she’d feel or what she’d find.

“ _Thank_ you,” she whispered, turning to meet the woman’s beam.

That softly crinkled gaze was so clear, so bright and blue that she could have been Brienne’s mother. Sorrow and guilt clenched in Brienne’s gut, catching at shadow memories of her mom draping her in gaudy jewelry and sitting down to pantomime tea.

“You,” Mrs. Stark murmured, hands slipping down to squeeze her arms, “are the strongest deb I’ve yet to meet. And whatever happens tonight, you are always welcome in my home and in my family.”

Mascara smeared her lashes as Brienne’s eyes clouded. She fought to keep the saltwater at bay, and succeeded for a minute, but it spilled itchy tracks down her cheeks all the same. Between the soothing strokes of murmured comfort, Mrs. Stark spent a good ten minutes cleaning smudges from her face.

“Sorry,” Brienne muttered, less embarrassed than she might have expected. The release had swept away some of her fears, and she felt stronger somehow.

Mrs. Stark patted her shoulder, breathing deeply and gesturing Brienne to follow suit. Her breath eased, hitching as it smoothed, and Brienne found herself momentarily grateful that Jaime hadn’t made it. She sent a prayer his way, hoping her meltdown would somehow keep him together, like some weird cosmic balance.

“Let’s get you into your dress.” Her coach smiled warmly, herding Brienne towards the room provided for debs and their entourages.

She didn’t mind. Her eyes were still damp; her sneakers blurred as they trekked down the hall. “Thanks.” Her throat was gravel. She cleared it as the older woman shuffled her into a folding chair.

The entire wall was one big mirror. Brienne tried not to meet anyone’s eye as fifteen-odd debs flurried about the room, touching up their hair and makeup or emerging from behind the dressing screens to examine elaborate gowns from every angle, hunting for a flaw. She saw Ygritte prancing outrageously in a slender, fringed gown, pretending not to love it each time a debutante shot her a cold look. Mar’s grandmother had sent her to a private stylist, but Mel was slumped in the corner in a red robe, buried in a book with flames on the cover. Sansa shot Brienne a concerned smile as she slipped from the room, promising a proper hug once she extricated herself from whatever errand had her dashing away.

Mrs. Stark brushed a bit of sand-colored hair from where it was clumped beside her ear. Brienne scooted back on her seat, uncomfortable with the attention in front of the other girls. When her mentor bustled away to retrieve the dress, she used a ragged corner of her sleeve to scrub the vestiges of saltwater from her freckled face.

Mrs. Stark returned, a black garment bag draped over her arm, and Brienne swallowed hard.

“Courage, Brienne,” the older woman joked sternly. Her deb worked up a hesitant smile, curious despite herself. Mrs. Stark nodded, pleased. She hung the dress on an empty hook, unzipping the bag with a flourish.

Brienne blinked. Squinted. Her crying jag seemed to have screwed with her vision. She glanced in the mirror, expecting swollen and bloodshot eyes, but they looked the same as always, just slightly pinker.

“What in heaven– ”

The horrified undertone pulled Brienne around, as quickly and painfully as if a rope yanked her bun from the roots. This time when her eyes focused, she felt like she might vomit.

Between the folds of the heavy black bag, Brienne had thought she was imagining the slash of red on her pristine white gown. But now the bag gaped open, a depthless maw with jagged teeth, and there was no mistaking the intricate red embroidery sewn across the bodice.

_Whore._

The bag was back, zipped tight before Brienne could so much as gag, and Catelyn Stark flipped it around on the wall as though that would make the horror disappear.

But she couldn’t scrub it out. It was stitched into Brienne’s brain, delicate and visceral and _red_.

“Denise, we have an emergency,” Mrs. Stark was saying into her phone, fingers reaching blindly to soothe, comfort, console. But wind was rushing in Brienne’s ears and she could barely hear her.

Her friends were moving towards her, dodging whispers and glances and pretty girls in gauzy little dressing gowns. They hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen, but Brienne knew it was no good.

They would know—everyone would know—and _Cersei would win_.

She felt bile invade her throat and bolted for the bathroom, retching up her meager breakfast behind the pretty whicker door. She pressed her cheek against the cool porcelain, remembering how Jaime had teased her for picking at her food, and she had distracted him in the car by worrying about her dress, and Cersei had stalked off at the airport without a word.

Her breath was shallow in the frivolous, fragrant room.

“Brienne,” Sansa knocked gently on the stall door, heels tapping together in time with her worry. “No one believes it, Brie. We’ll fix this. It’ll be alright.”

Brienne made to answer, but her voice had dried up with her tears. She stared at the wallpaper, mouth drifting closed, wondering if she could waste away the evening in lace-etched loneliness.

Sansa slipped away. Other voices wandered through, bubbling assurances and grim promises, curses and consolation. Brienne couldn’t muster the energy to face them. Margaery arrived to rail against Cersei and Lannisters and anyone who mistook duplicity for bravery. Loras followed shortly after, offering to escort Brienne instead of his sister. Even Renly meandered by, murmuring more apologies than anything through the tightly woven whicker door.

In the end, it wasn’t the tentative prodding and fervent threats of her friends that scooped Brienne from the floor, but the purposeful clack of crimson heels and a short, decided knock that refused refutation. Brienne swallowed hard, stuffing down more anger and impotence than she knew she possessed. She unlatched the stall to stare unblinkingly at Joanna Lannister. She was smooth and strong and tall, though not as tall as Brienne, and she stood like gilded fire under the flickering light of the chandelier. It felt like standing up to Cersei; like Jaime, livid and protective. It felt like a slap of reality.

“It’s not fair.” Mrs. Lannister raised her chin, staring up at the girl who’d enthralled her son before he knew he’d looked twice. “It’s not right. But my stepdaughter is who she is, and that’s not going away.”

The woman’s eyes found the sapphire at Brienne’s throat. Her distress had jostled it loose, tangling the chain in a button above her heart. She wouldn’t have noticed the green spark of concern if she hadn’t memorized it in her boyfriend’s gaze. His mother’s face was a cool portrait of decorum.

At that moment Brienne would have braved hell or high water for the comfort of Jaime’s touch.

“So, Brienne.” Mrs. Lannister met her eyes in a challenge. “Are you a lion or a mouse?”

Brienne dug her toes into her sneakers, unable to keep the uncertainty from her eyes. “Neither.” She hesitated, chewed her lip. She could still taste bile. “I’m a center forward.” Her shoulders hitched, fell; she realized it was poor form and straightened. “I’m a tight end.”  She eyed the white door, gritting her teeth as red seared across her sight. “And a debutante. Just tonight.”

Mrs. Lannister nodded, and suddenly her eyes were warm and shrewd and limitless. Her shoulders rose as though she were facing down a guillotine, a queen whose words would sway rope or blade.

“Jaime has responsibilities apart from Kingswood, Brienne.” She produced the girl’s phone from a fold of her dress, pressing it carefully into an ample, freckled palm. “One of them he passed to me.”

Brienne flicked through her messages, fingers trembling as she danced past concern and friendship to land on the one she’d missed.

_A goal, an assist, and a fight._

Brienne blinked down at the text, wondering how communication came so naturally to him. “A Gordie Howe hat trick.”

“Deportment, dresses, and a debutante ball.” Jaime’s mom smiled ruefully. For a moment, Brienne could see where he got his sense of irony. “You and I are more alike in some ways than in others.”

Brienne’s stomach stuttered, but Mrs. Lannister was placing something else in her hands. Long, light, and rewrapped several times, she didn’t have to tear open the paper to know what she held. When the bright red wrapping skidded to the tile, Brienne cradled a familiar plastic sword.

_“It’s not worth it.”_

_“I say you are.”_

“For all his cynicism, my son has a penchant for the romantic.” The woman’s fond smile said that she might have rolled her eyes if etiquette allowed. “He may be fighting his own battles, but he thought you could use a talisman.”

The blue studded hilt seemed coupled with the stone at her neck. She let her hand wrap around the grip like a hockey stick, and the roar of game day and the laughter of _The Seven Kingdoms_ and the zing of her first, euphoric kiss with Jaime engulfed her.

“Sansa is couriering a replacement gown from Catelyn’s designer.” Joanna lifted the hem of her dress, ushering Brienne toward the door. “It’s not quite to specifications, but, well, exceptions must be made.”

She moved with such cool purpose that Brienne barely noticed the circuitous route. They met no one on the way; slipping into an unfamiliar room felt almost too easy. Five minutes limped past, and then Sansa was rushing in, throwing her arms around Brienne and hugging her with such fierceness that the older girl had to catch her breath. When the freshman freed her, the girl stared so mistrustfully at Joanna Lannister that Brienne thought the woman might take offense.

Mrs. Lannister raised a perfect brow, tilting her head eloquently.

Mrs. Stark materialized in the doorway, gesturing with her eyes for her daughter to stand down. Sansa squeezed Brienne’s hand, retrieved the bright blue bag from her mom, and retreated to drape it on a lonely coat rack.

“Jaime finds you an anomaly.” Joanna Lannister smiled, and it didn’t sound like a dirty word in her mouth. Brienne kept her face unreadable, watching presumption flicker across the woman’s features. “He has an affinity for moxie, and a talent for reading people.”

Her eyes appraised Brienne as she turned expertly on her heel, smoothing her sleek, golden gown to face the women of the country club. Then Joanna Lannister strode away, leaving her son’s girlfriend with a new dress, a plastic sword, and a spine threaded with steel. 

It was less terrifying than Brienne would have thought, realizing that—between the taunts and tenderness and tournament toys—she’d fallen in love with Jaime Lannister. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are cherished. :)


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